Proteus

Vitum Dare

"Hey, kid, what ya sulkin' for?"

A thunk follows.

"Ow! What was that for, Drift!?" Crosshairs complains, rubbing the back of his helm. Propping himself upright again.

"Doing what the young Prime couldn't."

The young Prime helplessly smiles.

"There we go, haven't seen that in a while," Drift points, squatting next to him, giving the young one's helm a brief pat.

The young Prime still looked small beside the squatting Drift. His age more clear.

Crosshairs squats beside Drift.

"I'm guessing you and your Pa had one of your arguments?" Crosshairs pries.

The boy doesn't need to answer; the silence is answer enough.

Crosshairs and Drift look at each other, unsure of how to continue. Before they can decide, the boy stands up.

"I'll be fine. It's just something that happens. I'll be going now, see you two around, Drift, Crosshairs," he excuses himself.

Drift nods. "We'll be around, Proteus."

…

Proteus stares at his own reflection, watching the calm ripples distort his reflection in the water. Regardless, the distinctiveness of his appearance is apparent—he's almost a copy of the current Prime.

He tilts his helm to the side, the metal glinting under the sunlight. There, on the side of his helm, a visible glyph is present. A mark he was born with and what caused his current circumstances—dictating his path. A visible mark that proves the legitimacy of his relationship to the current Prime.

He hears familiar footsteps getting closer. He doesn't need to look back—he knows it's him.

"Proteus…"

"I just… wanted to see what he looked like," Proteus reasons, voice low and sheepish. He refuses to look at the figure.

"You know what danger he poses. What he had done."

"I know, sire. I know. … I'm sorry."

"I've set boundaries for you for a reason."

Silence.

Optimus sits beside his sparkling, the distance between them wide, albeit being physically right next to each other. The Prime scans the surroundings with his optics. The lake they're in is serene while the weather is comfortably cloudy.

"Sire." There is contemplation in his voice.

Optimus nods, urging the boy to continue.

"If you deem him so vile… why do I exist?"

Optimus is silent—he doesn't answer the question.

He thought so; his sire would never answer.

"He seemed inscrutable when he saw me." Proteus continues.

"I stepped closer, but he stepped away."

Optimus just listens, unspeaking.

"The four of them looked a bit like you too, sire."

Proteus places a servo on the glyph on the side of his helm.

"Would they be with me too if they were Marked Primes like I am?"

"Yes, they would," Optimus answers.

"Why leave them with him if he's dangerous?"

"He pleaded for them not to be taken, he swore under oath, and he's monitored. If any signs of him harming them appears, they'll be taken away from him."

"Will I be able to meet them again?"

Optimus takes his time. "Perhaps," he finally answers.

A brief silence.

"I was the one who went to their dwelling. He never took me nor got near me," He explains, turning his helm to look at the Prime. "He didn't break his oath."

Optimus silently looks at him, gaze pensive.

A minute passes.

The Prime nods.

…

Proteus tosses and turns, unable to recharge, his optics closed. His frame aches from the grueling training his small body is put under, but it's his processor that doesn't let him rest. His thoughts can't help but drift to his encounter with him earlier that day; way before the sun rose in the sky.

Proteus watched the one who brought him into this world stare at him at a distance, expression inscrutable, his frame rigid. The young Prime wanted to say so many things, ask so many questions, and yet he couldn't bring the words out of his intake to speak. Silence surrounded the two instead.

He remembers how every few steps he took forward, Megatron took the same amount backwards. He remembers how, a few minutes later, he was suddenly yanked by the scruff, followed by the angry voice of his sire. But his voice wasn't directed at him.

"You swore not to go near him, Megatron! You are under oath!"

He watched the former Lord High Protector sport a complex expression, his dermas in a tight line, backing away from the Prime. Proteus can see Megatron leaving himself open to be at the mercy of the Prime. Megatron doesn't speak as the Prime yells. He notices how Megatron holds himself well, never cowering despite his show of vulnerability.

"Mama!" A young-sounding voice yells.

He then saw four small frames sprint towards Megatron, holding him as if to shield him. Megatron swiftly moves them, placing the four behind him, shielding them instead. The young Prime notices how Megatron's on edge now. He can tell the mech is protective of the four and will defend them no matter what it takes. He guesses— No. Proteus is sure they are his litter-mates.

The four's blue optics looked terrified, optics that looked so much like his sire, unlike his own red. The more he looked, the more he noticed features he shared with them and their creators. One of them looked larger than all of them, a bit taller than Proteus, and looked like Megatron the most. He is baring his dentas. It lacked the sharpness Proteus' dentas possess. One of the four is a very small femme—likely the runt of the litter. While the other two are about similar in size, a bit shorter than him. They have similar colorings to his sire, unable to shift their own colors just yet, and unlike him, who shares Megatron's coloring. He wonders what colors the four will sport when they're able to change them.

The memory ends with him being dragged away by his sire, Megatron's gaze pinned at him as he grew smaller the further away they got.

'Mama,' his mind drifts to the term one of his litter-mates called Megatron. A human terminology.

He wonders if he's allowed to call him that too, wonders if he has the right to even call him that.

He opens his optics, giving up on recharge. He sits up, going down his berth and walking towards his room's balcony. He opens the door, the cool and gentle night breeze caressing his frame. The night is serene, although he does hear a bit of Drift and Crosshairs' distant banter occasionally. The Prime tower is peaceful.

"M…" '—ama.' He tries to speak it, mimicking his litter-mate. Most of the word remains in his intake, unable to be brought forth. He exvents.

He moves his gaze to the bright moon; bright, red optics fixated on it. Somewhere, at the same time, the same red optics as his stare at the moon too.